It’s pathetic and childish. A game of brinksmanship – but that’s what we’ve come to, after all. Perhaps I am the baddie in all of this. For now, I don’t care. I grab my car keys and, moments later, we’re on the road.
The light from Olivia’s phone in the passenger seat is a constant in the corner of my eye as we follow the street lights out of North Melbury until we reach the darkened lanes on the outskirts of town. The stars are out tonight and the moon is so much brighter than when I was waking up in the field. There’s little fear of these roads with Olivia at my side.
‘Any other comments on the picture?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘Any updates? New photos?’
‘No.’
I want to tell her not to get her hopes up, that the blurry mess could be anyone, but there’s little point.
‘Did you try messaging Sam Jones?’ I ask.
‘I’m not stupid.’
‘I know, Liv. I’m only asking.’
‘Well I did – and they’ve not got back to me.’
‘Do you know a Sam Jones?’
‘No.’
I leave it there, more certain than before that this is a wild goose chase with no goose – and that we’re probably only one more question away from an argument that will undo any of the good work between us from the past couple of days.
It’s a silent drive the rest of the way, though Olivia’s phone screen never dims. Bashington is as unremarkable as North Melbury; both typical British towns that run on gossip, tea, summer fetes, suspicion of the young and, whisper it quietly, anyone who doesn’t look quite British enough. Most of the shops are closed after five o’clock and all day on Sundays. That’s why it’s no surprise that the town centre is empty when we arrive. Everyone’s always complaining about the lack of parking spaces – another telltale sign that people have little to do – but it’s no problem on this occasion. I park next to the obelisk in the square and switch off the engine.
‘Where do you want to start?’ I ask.
Olivia is out of the car and doesn’t reply. By the time I’m out and around her side, she’s already off along a lane that has darkened shops on both sides. She’s ducking to peer into the shadows and criss-crossing to the doorways in case any bodies are shadowed by the murk. I say nothing, pulling my coat tighter and following.
We’re almost at the end of the street when she makes a small squeak and darts into a covered archway. It’s only a moment until I catch up but, when I do, she’s crouching over a man in a sleeping bag who’s using a crammed bin bag for a pillow. Even before he rolls over, it’s obvious that it’s not Tyler. His hair is greyer and he’s a bag of bones. Olivia makes him jump by touching his arm. He growls at her, a startled wolf protecting cubs as she leaps away, apologising and saying she thought he was someone else. He eyes her – and then me – with understandable suspicion as he cradles his pillow filled with what are likely his only possessions. He shouts something along the lines of ‘get out of it’ – but the words are slurred and barely understandable. The sentiment is clear.
This time I don’t allow Olivia to walk ahead, gripping her wrist like she’s a child until she relents and remains by my side. We reach the end of one street and double around to follow the parallel one.
Olivia says nothing but she’s shivering. I offer my coat but she dismisses me with a rapid shake of the head.
There are two more homeless people on the next street but we continue with only a squint in their direction. It’s awful but what am I supposed to do? Drive them home to ours for the night?
Olivia’s pace starts to quicken as we arrive back at the car. A man is hurrying past, hands in pockets, likely on the way home from the pub – and she calls him over, showing him the photo on her phone and asking if he’s seen anything. He looks back and shakes his head before carrying on.
We try the main High Street and then a final row of shops near to the river – but there’s no sign of Tyler. It’s close to midnight and Olivia catches me checking my watch as we head back to the car.
‘It could be someone playing a trick,’ I say.
I half expect a fiery response, though it doesn’t come. Instead, Olivia replies with a solemn whisper: ‘I know.’
‘I saw the comment left on the page earlier.’
No reply.
‘How many have you been getting like that?’
Olivia takes my hand and squeezes her fingers into mine. I can’t remember the last time she did this. She rests her head momentarily on my shoulder as we continue to walk slowly.
‘A few,’ she says.
‘C’mon,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s get you home.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Friday
I wait at the top of the stairs and watch Olivia go into her room. I want to follow her in, read her a story and tuck her into bed like the old days but I don’t know that many happy endings nowadays. There’s a shuffling as she gets undressed and then quiet. I don’t know if she’s settled down to sleep – but I hope so. I suspect she’s on her phone, refreshing her Find Tyler page in case there’s an update.
Our room is directly ahead. Dan will be asleep and I doubt he’s stirred much since we left. He’s always been something of a heavy sleeper – all the more reason why it’s so odd he answered my phone call in the early hours of Tuesday.
I’m touching the handle to enter when I change my mind. I’m not sure what I think of him and his secrets and, though there isn’t fear at being in the same house as him, I don’t want to share a bed.
It’s not the first time I’ve slept in the spare room – we’ve had more than our share of flouncy arguments – but it’s the first time in about a year. On the last occasion, it was because Dan cleaned the kitchen counter after I’d already done it. It sounds like nothing and, to a large degree, it is. But there was something about the way he did it, the extra small circles he made with the cloth as if I wasn’t capable of doing it properly myself. I shouted, he did his usual thing of remaining calm and speaking to me reeeeeeaaaalllllly sllllllooooooowwwwwwwly – and there’s little that infuriates me more.
He knows it, of course, which is why he does it. In the end, I slept in the spare room for a night, we barely talked the next day, and then we got back to normal by living around one another.
The spare room has a double bed that’s permanently made, largely because nobody ever sleeps in here. When Olivia was younger and had her friends over for the night, they’d double and triple up across the two rooms. Before that, Dan’s mother had a night or two here while she was still alive. We had the odd friend after dinner parties back when we were trying to be sophisticated – but it’s been empty almost every night since we moved in.
I don’t bother going into our room to fetch nightclothes, instead slipping under the covers in my underwear. The mattress is softer than what I usually sleep on; the pillows harder, sheets stiffer. It’s comfortable, though; more so because I’m on my own. I close my eyes and hug the covers tight under my chin. I even say a silent prayer to a god in whom I don’t believe, hoping Tyler’s back sometime soon. At least things might start to get back to normal.
* * *
Dan is in the kitchen when I head downstairs in the morning. He’s in his gym kit, eating a bowl of porridge while standing at the counter. He’s reading something on his phone but glances up as I cross the living room. He says the kettle has just boiled but doesn’t mention anything about our sleeping arrangements from the previous night.
Even without separate rooms, this is our routine for the morning. One of us boils the kettle, making sure there’s enough water for both of us. Other than that, we do our own things. If either of us stops boiling the kettle, it really is the end of days.
I should ask him about the stun gun… about my keys in the fridge… about why he was still up in the early hours of Tuesday… but I don’t.